For the record, Tarquin, Annalea and Lorelli made significant edits and they made this piece awesome. Furthermore, I am indebted to Tarquin as he gave Bricu the last “word.” That was not my initial intention, and I am grateful that he nailed Bricu down so very well.
–
The bloodiest war that Stormwind never cared about ended at a round table that sat eight.

Next to the gaunt man with straw-colored hair and a simple, but beautifully constructed wide brimmed hat, was a grim looking ginger bastard and a petite, wicked -eyed blonde. Next to her was a night elf woman with green hair who would not stop smirking. Around the other half of the table sat a gnomish woman with dead eyes, a human woman looking uncomfortable in a simple, homespun dress and Draenei man who was unremarkable aside from the series of tattoos across his face and tentacles. To his left, and the gnome’s right, was a vacant chair.

“I think we can all agree that today has been a long time coming, and I, for one, am exceedingly happy to move beyond this dark…” Said the draenei before the ginger bastard cut him off.

“Where the fuck is Angel?” he said.

“The Angel could not be here today, as he had pressing matters of business to attend to given our preliminary agreements…” the Draenei responded. The activity on the other side of the table drowned out his words.

The man in the very fine hat might’ve made a gesture to his fellows. Maybe he was just adjusting his position. Either way, the blonde and the elf stood up, while the ginger bastard leveled a finger and began shouting.

“Fuck this. Yeh said he’d be here. All the major players we’re gonna be here. Now yer boss is too wrapped up in shite ta be here? Then we’re done.”

“Please, there is no need for this situation to devolve further, I am perfectly capable of addressing his requests and demands.” The draenei said calmly.

“That means sit your ass down before we kill you.” The gnome said softly.

“Adorable, isn’t she?” The elf said to the blonde. “In a creepy-porcelain-doll of death kind of way.”

“My family isn’t too keen on spooky dolls,” the blonde responded. She squinted at the now scowling gnome. “But I can see it.”

“Yeh lot ir eh pair o’right cle’er twists. I’d b’a right fookin’ pleasure ta rip out yer fuckin’ tongues.” The woman in the homespun dress said. As she stood up from the table, she drew a wicked curved knife.

“That’s all?” The elf said, drawing two straight edged daggers. “I’m disappointed, sweetheart.”

The man in the very fine hat put his elbows on the table and rested his head on his hands, looking as bored as if they were talking shipping.

“Enough!” The draenei shouted. “If you insist, I will find him.”

“Boyo, I think we insist.” Bricu said.

The draenei stood up from the table, and motioned for his companions to sit down. They complied, albeit far from willingly. Bricu made a similar motion to Lorelli and Annalea. Annalea stood behind her chair, while Lorelli put her daggers on the table and sat back down. For his part, Bricu leaned against the wall behind Tarquin.

“So.” He said, “If it’s gonna take our friend a long time ta get Angel, we should get at know each other. What’s yer names lasses?”

“Fook off.” The woman said. The gnome said nothing at all.

“Right then. Fook off an’ Glower it is.” Bricu said.

“Figure we should just enjoy some quiet time, Bric.” Lorelli said.

Bricu snorted. Tarquin said nothing.

–

The room was silent for some minutes while they awaited the return of the Draenei and Angel. Tarquin rested his head, Annalea smiled sweetly at the gnome. Lorelli sat sideways in her chair, legs crossed not looking at any of them. Bricu watched the door. Glower and Fook Off conferred with each other, but in hushed tones that even Lorelli struggled to hear.

The draenei entered first. He carried himself taller and straighter, and he smirked as he sat back in his chair.

The Angel was a few feet behind him. He was taller than Tarquin, with Bricu’s broad shoulders and something of Lorelli’s predatory grace, and the innocent, almost beautiful face of a marble statue. He stood behind his chair and smiled at everyone at his table, like he was welcoming them to dinner and they had only to partake of his bounty. His blue eyes rested on Tarquin.

“Master ap Danwyrith, it is truly a pleasure to sit here with you. May I stand?” Angel said. His voice was as rich and clear as a note on a viola.

Tarquin, by comparison, sounded rusty and tired when he spoke for the first time in that room. “Sit, stand, long as we talk.” Bricu took his seat next to Tarquin, and Lore put away her knives. Annalea leaned forward and studied each face at the table carefully. She did not flinch when they made eye contact–instead, she smiled brightly before winking at the Draenei.

“Please, continue.” Annelea said, “We’re all ears.”

The Angel was stone-still, but not stiff or awkward; a man who moved, and could be moved, only when he allowed it so. “I will state the obvious, on the chance that it is not. This conflict has grown beyond reason and profit. I have lost valuable resources.” His three confidants, employees, or henches had no overt reaction to being referred to, by implication, as resources, but Annalea smiled at them all when the Angel said that. “Yet you are not invulnerable, and your people have learned that.” It was his turn to smile, at Lorelli, who looked back with searing, white-hot blankness.

“There’s none o’ us dead,” said Bricu with a sneer. “An’ a whole fuckin’ pile o’ yer best gone ta the dirt. So don’t yeh talk like it’s even, huh?”

Again that soft smile. “Yes, I am sure the judges place you firmly ahead on points. Nevertheless, that you are here at all speaks to the danger of your position.” He stared at Tarquin. “You have few of your Riders to lose, and fewer still that you can afford to lose. I, on the other hand…” He spread his hands. “There are always violent people with more debts than sense. Your luck cannot hold out forever, Master ap Danwyrith.”

The silence would have been oppressive, to a different eight people. All of these, on either side of the table, were well used to it. Finally Tarquin rolled his neck and shrugged. “Obvious. As yeh said. An’ so wir here fir terms.”

The Angel didn’t exactly relax, physically, but there was a lessening of that thick tension in the air. “Let us discuss those vaunted terms. Simply, we will continue to sell our product, as long as we remain outside of Old Town.”

“Aye.” Bricu said.

“In return for this, you won’t…”

“Deal with unmentionables in a clean, quick and terribly efficient fashion.” Lorelli stated matter-of-factly. “We are professionals.”

“And if we say no to these terms?”

The Riders glanced at each other, and one by one each pair of eyes travelled to Tarquin. “Then we’re back where we was, big lad,” said the northman. “Yir people try an’ do business in Auld Town, an’ we float thim home in the canals. We kin keep it up till someone runs outay mates -” he opened his fists and spread his hands apart – “or, we kin do business.”

“I see.” If the Angel had a reaction to that, he wasn’t sharing it. “Well then, do we all sign in ink or in something more permanent?”

Annalea rolled her eyes. “This isn’t the opera. Ink.”

Starting with the Angel and ending with his right-hand Draenei, everyone around the table signed the name.

Bricu snorted as the paper passed him. “Yer signin’ this as the Angel?”

“For all intents and purposes, that’s as binding as anything else I would have signed with the name my parents gave me. I intend to enforce this agreement severely. In fact, my organization is aware of how I will enforce discipline on this issue.”

Fook off, who signed her name as Clara Hunt, shuddered at the mention of discipline. The Draenei paled, but the gnome gave no indication of any concern.

“Discipline is good.” Lore said, “It should make sure we all play nicely.”

Glower turned her gaze to Loreli, “I agree,” she whispered, just loud enough for the room to hear; “Fire makes for excellent discipline.”

The room was quiet for more than a few moments. Finally, Tarquin broke the silence.

“So that’s us set, then, is it?”

“I suppose it is.” The Angel looked around at them, smiling like a plaster saint. “Until our business conflicts again. We may well see each other at this table in years to come, Master ap Danwyrith – and those of your associates who are still able to join you.” Bricu bristled, but it was Lorelli who spoke.

“Trust me, I fully intend to outlive you and yours. And by quite some time at that.”

Angel looked over Loreli. Glower simply snickered.

“Miss Tymara, this is not a threat but a fact, with figures. One in your line of work doesn’t grow old gracefully.” He looked almost sad about it. “In fact, likely none of you will grow old. You can cheat death only for so long before she claims what is hers…and I am certain you are each far, far in the red.”

Silence weighed down the room for a long moment. Again, there was some signal from Tarquin that might as well have been a slight shift in his seat; Bricu put an already-rolled cigarette in his hand, and Annalea leaned in on his other side with a light. “I take that ta mean, mate, that yeh’ll be waitin’ when the books are due ta be balanced.”

The Angel inclined his head. “It’s just good business.”

Tarquin took a long drag while the Angel waited with ironic patience, his subordinates following his lead. These things had a form, after all. Finally Tarquin ejected two jets of smoke from his nostrils and spoke.

“S’pose so. Only – I’m no’ really a businessman, big lad. None ay us are, proper. Did yeh ken that?” He stood, and the Riders stood with him – Bricu hard-eyed and sneering, Lorelli stretching like a well-fed jungle cat, Annalea’s gaze flickering between faces and her mouth crooked in a slight smirk.

The Angel answered, after a pause, his smile just this side of wary. “I can’t say I’d thought much one way or the other about it, Master ap Danwyrith. But we are doing business – so if not, what then?”

Tarquin pulled the cigarette from his mouth and smiled, a white wide fence that kept in things better not considered. “Nutters,” he said, almost happily, and extended his free hand to the two women. “Murderin’ witches. Red-handed savages. [i]Mad bastards[/i].” He dropped the stub of cigarette and laughed. “Shite, big lad, think I set out ta live like this? None ay us did – it’s the only friggin’ thing we got left. An’ yeh want ta try an’ take it? Guid luck t’yeh.”

The Angel couldn’t help but smile back, or at least, that was the impression he wanted to give. “Why, Master ap Danwyrith, I’ve never been so amiably threatened.”

“Ah, I’m no’ threatenin’ yeh. Hell, we do business again–” Tarquin stepped back, half-turning towards the door. “Bric?”

With a suddenness all the more shocking for how placid the negotiations had been, Bricu stepped into Tarquin’s spot, hands slamming down onto the table, teeth bared, eyes bright and deadly. “We fuckin’ do business again, yeh get me,” snarled the Bittertongue. “The chief’s the fuckin’ businessman. I’m a bloody-minded north country bastard, an’ I don’t care what the fuck it costs, or any o’ that shite!” He swept his eyes across the four of them, Lorelli looming at his shoulder, tongue darting across her lips with an uncomfortably serpentine air.

The Angel had no response, a guarded lack of expression on his face, and none of his anxious lieutenants dared to speak. Again came one of those barely-notable signals from Tarquin, and Annalea smiled sunnily. “A pleasure, you lot,” she purred, and linked arms with Tarquin, the two of them heading to the door. Lorelli took two long steps backward, turned gracefully, and followed.

Bricu was the last out, but not before making a wet death-rattle in his throat and gobbing mucus across the Angel’s pristine table. “Come on if yeh think yer hard enough,” he said, leaving the challenge and the splitting behind him as he turned on his heel and walked after his fellows. Annalea gave the Angel a last lingering, unreadable look, and closed the door behind him.

And then the war was done.

Fells, just Fells, has a fantastic story to tell. Sadly, she won’t tell you any of this story, even if you were in the Black and Red.

Eyan Woolery could have been her first, the son of an Eastvale logger who came by when his family needed produce and hers needed firewood. A yank on her braid had sent her chasing him into the forest, his quick wit had made her forget her anger, and for three weeks in the sweltering summer they’d been inseparable. Sneaking out had seemed fun and daring. She’d focused on tipping over sleeping cows and wading in the creek and making sure to ignore his attentions. It’d been easy enough to fend him off with a dismissive “‘trothed, Eyan” until he’d hovered too close and she’d realized that she was wetting her lips and watching his own all too intently. Their midnight misadventures ceased, Eyan Woolery took up with Jenna, the tanners’ girl, and Fells was free to wait for the betrothed she’d never met but was certain would come.

Her first was none of anyone’s business – an unnecessary cleanup job done in a fit of blind, stupid panic. At sixteen she should have been retrieved from the Brackwell farm years prior, or if not that, married off to a Light-fearing Elwynn boy and well on her way to giving him a family full of fat, happy babies. She’d helped slaughter and butcher meat for years; it’d been poor practice for taking a human life, crouched over the body in a slurry of dirt and blood that she still had nightmares of trying to wash off. It had been her sharp paring knife, snatched from the floor where it’d been scattered in the raid, that had done her first in. When she’d fled into the forest for safety afterwards, she’d flung it downstream into the creek. Besides needing it gone, she’d simply been trembling too badly to trust herself to run with a blade.

The farm had been her first. Her life was bordered to the east by the creek and the south by the river, with the road to the rest of the world out of shouting distance through the woods to the north. She could have followed it to the tiny schoolhouse twice a week and learned how to read. She could have cast her lot at the garrison once she turned thirteen, or found an apprenticeship in Goldshire at any place but the Lion’s Pride. Instead she’d contented herself with stealing away at odd hours to watch the comings and goings at Stormwind’s great gates. Whole nights had been lost imagining the lives of those who passed through and wondering if one of them might be her intended, finally coming to take her away. She had always ended up rushing back, had always been relieved and disappointed to find the farm still asleep.

One Lord Laurus Drachmas, third son of Heth Drachmas, noble of Lordaeron and self-proclaimed unrepentant freethinker had been her finest, and she would be damned if she’d admit it aloud anymore. Yes, he’d left her holding onto patience by her fingernails more often than not, and the rest of the world had asked her on more than one occasion: “Why him?” She couldn’t have explained their shared, base language of touch and pressure, and wouldn’t have even if her limited vocabulary had allowed it. When night had fallen on the bit of earth they’d carved from the world and claimed for their own, they could be together for a spell and she could believe that they loved each other, even if she had more and more difficulty with liking. Her devotion had been reckless, fervent, stubborn, and in the end, simply not enough.

Rengault Haneaux had been her finest. He was an agent of the Kirin Tor whose murder she’d never been charged with but had ended up sentenced to hang for all the same. It was debatable if the kill had even been hers at all. No, she hadn’t wielded the claws that raked his throat open; she’d only given the word. But the assault she’d rained on the body in a pique of rage might have been what technically did him in anyway. If nothing else, it’d certainly helped him shuffle off the mortal coil more swiftly, and had given her cause enough to claim the kill when she presented it to the man she came all too close to selling out instead of protecting. Haneaux’s had been the first murder she’d anticipated having to commit. It was also the only one she didn’t regret.

Stormwind was her finest; it had offered neither counsel nor compassion, but assigned its tasks just the same: find shelter, find a way to feed herself, find out how long she could manage without one or the other or both. She only had to hold out until her betrothed or her parents came for her, anyway. Like so many abandoned wretches she’d eked out comfort where she could find it, huddled on the front steps of its closed shops or the cramped crevices beneath its bridges where the rain didn’t reach. What coin she needed could be had from the pockets of its unsuspecting citizens. The city had never rewarded her for lessons learned other than the fact that she got to enjoy the benefits of her new-found skills. When she’d done well, it meant a room with a real bed and the luxury of getting to wonder how she would work through tomorrow.

Going by semantics, her last was a bit of a toss-up. With the lamp snuffed, the faint glow of elven eyes was hardly enough to go by, though she didn’t need sight to tell who was who. And in the end, the distinction mattered little. When dawn had burned away the night’s fog, the tangled pile of sheets and limbs separated easily enough into people who roused one at a time to go about their daily chores just the same. The first set to breakfast, the second set to children, and the third slept in far too late to catch the others at either until the sun had climbed well into the sky. Later that night, after the children were down, it’d more than likely start up again. Maybe it’d become routine, but who could ever hope for a more wonderful rut?

Her last was a real tenacious bastard. She knew when to expect him: when Felicia got that certain snotty grin and almost seemed to channel her father directly, that should have been the worst. But she expected the fight then, and it didn’t come, each time leaving her smugly thinking maybe she’d bested him for good. Then the want of him would sneak up on her and strike home without warning, making the back of her mind itch like an ant bite. She could have cut down an opponent of flesh and blood and been done with it, or set poisons to it and let them do the dirty work. Memories and mourning? She had to put those down as soon as they tried to take root, cutting them down with Better Off and Wonderful Home and No Longer Babysitting The Spouse. It was an unending task, but became easier by the day, and eventually she wouldn’t have to think about it at all.

Her last was a rough mishmash of things: children to wrangle and raise, a household to rebuild, a fallen country to help fleece and the spoils of which to see funneled into the right hands. More noteworthy was what it was not: for the very first time in her life she wasn’t mastered by the man she was promised to, hobbled by waiting or duty or playing mediator. Maybe a storm of circumstance tossed her about, but she was the one holding the rudder instead of trusting a Him to hold it for her and letting the rest fall to chance. It only took her twenty-two years to get it right.

This week, we get the real deal on Shad, the official midwife of Feathermoon.

Celesse was his first. He never counted Eurydice, because no matter how she plead, promised, or punished, he always refused her that final step. No, it was the woman he chose to be his wife with whom he finally joined under the shade of a great oak on the shores of Lake Elune’ara. She was beautiful, graceful, so much the ideal woman that he’d been sure that it was love. That it was forever. He didn’t regret those six months, two of whirlwind courtship and four of everything men bemoaned when they shunned marriage. Was it any surprise that he also didn’t regret the kiss that had ruined it all?

In an occupation where these things should have been months preplanned, his first was a surprise. He’d offered some help at the start, but to be there for the terrifying, bloody end of it hadn’t been on the menu. To this day, he’d still never had one that bled as much as that first one. It had taken all his training not to run, but in the end, it was worth it. Most Riders made their way in the world by killing. He considered it a blessing that he’d found another path to take. Nerida O’Connaugh was a most satisfying first child to have to his midwifing credit.

Like most boys, he could count his father as his first. And like so many boys he was so certain that No Really, His Father Hated Him. Why else had he been such a draconian instructor? He’d once made his son sit for three days and nights in the freezing cold of Winterspring, refusing him shelter until he’d felt the pulse of a pine. Even then, he’d never been satisfied. Never once praised him. But he’d show the Dreaming bastard. He’d be twice the druid his father ever was.

There was no question that Fells was his finest. Though his mother had taught him about love, it had been Fells who taught him how, and in the flickering shadows of the waterfall that blurred the bliss of fireworks into a shimmering glow, he’d thanked her for her patience in spades. She wasn’t everything he’d ever dreamed of, but it turned out everything he’d ever dreamed of was pretty stupid, and he never could have fathomed what it was like to actually be happy with someone. She didn’t try to make him into someone he wasn’t; she transformed him effortlessly into who he was supposed to be. Even if she’d only live sixty years more, he knew they’d be the best he’d ever see.

If he had to pick just one, it would have to be Felicia that was his finest, as she demanded that she be born all of fifteen minutes before her twin. Regardless of who’d come forth first, they’d both been his greatest triumph: twins gotten on a once-barren woman thanks to his magics, and a difficult delivery for which he didn’t have to call in more competent help. She–they–were proof that he wasn’t a failure, and the best gift he could offer to the woman he loved. And during the long nights full of screaming infants, that was the thought that kept him sane.

Era was definitely his finest. After the months they’d struggled for control of the plague-ravaged body they shared, the panther would surely have felt fully justified simply slaying his captor and/or taking over entirely. Instead, he’d taught the lonely child what it meant to be a cat, and gradually helped shape him into a man. That they’d grown into equal brothers only made Shad all the more grateful that Era had endured his years of obnoxious condescension. How had he failed to see then that he’d never really been in charge at all?

His last was something of an awkward topic, at least outside of their little family. Sure, he’d been the one to propose the arrangement and insisted that all things had to be equal, but that didn’t make it any less strange to be pulling Zeve down to the mattress with him. But oh, he’d moved as slowly and gently as he would have while treating a wounded tiger, forestalling both flight and fight from both sides of the dance. Of course it wasn’t perfect; he’d have been concerned if it was. But in the end, Zeve’s words always put it best: it was Right.

Technically, his last wasn’t finished yet, but it was his most recent. Baby Boy Windwhisper (as he was presently known) would not come into the world for months yet, but he’d already made his mark. Shad didn’t get many kaldorei clients for obvious biological reasons, and those he did had always been, if not ready, then grateful for the blessing. But in so many ways, his last was also his first. Corrienda was the first to complain of being too young. She was the first for whom he’d researched the remedies taught by whores who’d disposed of unwanted baggage. And even though he hadn’t had to put them into practice for her, she was the first he had to struggle not to despise.

Tarquin was his last. The Riders pledged allegiance to the black and red, not directly to him, but all jobs and orders ultimately filtered through the Boss’s nimble fingers and trickled off his wicked tongue. Shad didn’t know him very well, but did anyone, really? He knew enough; he’d put his life in the man’s hands as both ally and adversary over the years, and his heart still beat, and that was all he needed. Really, if anything made Tarquin special, it was that: Shad didn’t need a damned thing from him other than trust.

This is the post that started it all. Very much a brilliant piece of work and a fantastic introduction to Tarquin.

Em had been his first, though even then he’d not known if she was Emily, or Emma, or something stranger. She’d been at least twenty, with a brittle smile and fine dark hair and legs nearly as long and rawboned as his; he was a bundle of knees and elbows and ill-considered intentions at fifteen, but even dogs and idiots could figure it out and so had he. They’d done it in Sickie Croy’s garret, which he rented out for any purpose for a handful of coppers at a time. Tarq, thinking himself clever, had learned a time when it was standing empty and talked Em up there, glib even then. In the course of an hour he learned the mysteries of the universe, and skated up against its limits as well. But someone grassed to Sickie Croy, and he’d found Em and taken a knife to her cheeks, and told her to pass along to the northern boy his lesson. Someone always pays.

Gunnar Glasper had been his first, a Tiresian captain who’d run blockades in the war and was now running harbors in the rebuilding. Evading the King’s tax was one thing, but when he’d taken van Cleef’s bloody coin, Reznik the Shiv had put his name on the Tally. Jasper had found them the ship, and Clobber had stood watch, but it was Tarquin and Loche who’d slipped aboard. They flipped for it, and Tarquin won, or lost. It was strange that he couldn’t remember if they’d flipped to do the deed or avoid doing it; in any case, it was moot to Gunnar Glasper. The knife had gone in under his ear, by his jaw, clean and perfect, but it had come out with a sloppy rip and he’d had to dash out of the harbor red and dripping. Jasper had laughed. The rest of them hadn’t. It took at least another four or five before he could start laughing about a murder.

Orwend had been his first, an old tyrant even when he was young, more master than father – they were much the same in his mind, in his spirit, in his iron bones. The girls had been luckier, Tarquin thought as a boy, left to their own devices; it was only when they went south that he realized how battened-down they were, how bereft of opportunity. The old man had seen opportunity for his sons, so he curbed and bent and hammered them into the shape of those chances. Gyles had broken, and Orvain had bent, but somewhere along the line Tarquin had slipped loose of the frame. He regretted only that he hadn’t taken any more of the old bastard’s chattel with him.

Ceil had been his finest, that storm in the form of a girl, from shy dreamer to scarred sleek killer, madly and inhumanly beautiful all the way along. Their bed had been a haven even when things were bad with them, maybe especially when they were bad; when it was no bed at all and their fingers had clutched at wood or grass or marble, nails digging for the threads of hope and hurt that bound them. They’d pulled each other laughing and calling out through that sweet, aching madness, and attacked life the same way, and there’d never been a thought in Tarquin’s head that it was too good to last. Even now, he wouldn’t fill that hollow place with trite thoughts of inevitability or some such shit. They’d fucked it up, that was all.

The grinning man had been his finest, the slick soiled monster that had stalked his godsdaughter to the end of the world. There was, Tarquin prided himself on knowing, a long list to choose from – the mad Scarlet archmage on whom he’d made his name, Hinote Kirase (shameful or not, it was a hell of a fight), the slickear lord he’d opened from gullet to crotch on the day the Bloody Prince fell, and of course the Butcher. Maybe it should have been the Butcher; after all, he’d never fought like that in his life, before or again. It had been a duel, and the grinning man had been a mad rattling brawl. He’d beaten the man to death with a fireplace poker; what kind of professionalism was that? It was amusing that someone else had finished the job for him in both cases, and when you threw in that Uthas had killed the grinning man for him, well, the pattern spun out of control entirely. In the end, he had to choose the grinning man, because he’d been fighting and bleeding for the wee hen and her mother and father and for everything she represented; for the idea that what he’d built could make things right.

Nikolai had been his finest, of that there was no doubt, that great wind-carved glacier of a man. Osborne had trained him, and Shaw had shaped him over those long years, but in the year he’d worn the Diaconescu raven he learned more about being a man than those esteemed cutthroats had ever managed to teach him in ten. Even now, should the Unfeeling trod through the door of the Pig with a thin tired smile on his battered face, demanding to know what his halfwit lad of a right hand was about, there was a chance that Tarquin would answer him avidly and eagerly, whiskey at the ready. Though he’d more than likely knife the old monster first.

Annalea had been his last, two nights ago, both of them drunk on old John Bell’s good brandy. They’d meant to go over the books, but somewhere during that ever-continuing poker game it had become clear that that certainly wasn’t happening, and when they extricated themselves from the table it suddenly seemed that they couldn’t get to her little room above the street fast enough. Tucked into each other like shells, fingertips to knuckles, here and there a muttered instruction or a bad joke. Annie was nearly thirty, and he could see the crow’s feet starting to gather by her eyes, knew that her breasts would sag and her hips would broaden (just as his hair would go gray and slough out, and his clever fingers would knob and bend). She did not try to fill his hollow places, and he did not try to soothe her scars, and together they were happier than they believed they’d any right to be.

Some mad bugger in the Highlands had been his last, a Tauren in an ill-fitting robe singing down fire from the skies and horror from the deeps. It’d felt good to do field work again, the magic crackling over his skin and Annie’s potions coursing in his veins, keeping him as swift and strong as he’d been fifteen years ago, but ten times the bastard. Big Feliche held the front, arrows and sorcery whipping back and forth, making it easy for him to duck from doorway to alcove to the cultist’s own shadow. The silly fuck had never even seen him, only felt one knife in the back his knee and then, if he was unlucky, the other one going up into his throat as he buckled. It had gone in just as smooth as if he were Gunnar Glasper, and just like Glasper, it had been a mess, the Tauren writhing and bellowing in his death throes. By the time Tarquin had gotten the knife out, the rest of his lot were broken. No matter how many times he’d done this, it still got messy.

He was his last, finally; maybe thirty-four was young yet compared to most masterless men, but Tarquin had done far more living in those years than they, and what the fuck did they know of him anyway? He’d served kings and warlords and preachers and lunatics, schemed and cajoled and snuck and killed, danced for them like the song was ending and the Spring Maiden was just bare yards away. But now he had the fiddle, and when he didn’t know the tune, he’d learned to fake it. Sometimes he shuddered at the things he’d given up, or at the things he’d taken that weren’t precisely his by right. But that was the world. Tarquin was just trying to live in it, without any other bastard telling him what it was he had to do; the money, the lady, the pub and the Riders and the dim hope that he might leave something worth having after he was done, those were all just the benefits of living a masterless life. It wasn’t in him to be content, likely for the same reasons that had driven him to this stage. But he could look at the tally sheet he carried in some glutted red place, see his own name on the header, and decide that he was still winning.

And that would just have to be good enough.

Art by Kost

The Night Elf sitting on the bar doesn’t turn her pretty head to you when you enter. She’s too busy starring daggers at the ‘arcanist’ in the corner: The blonde one with a pony tail and the spectacles. Her good side to you, you can tell she’s young and pretty–at least she would be if she wasn’t sneering–but the ease in which she hoists the giant blade propped up next to her makes it clear that she’s familiar with battle.

The arcanist makes apologies, and the pretty elf huffs a few words in Darnassian. With her free hand, she reaches for her over-sized mug of gutrot, and that’s when you can see the scars. The left side of the elf’s face is a tangled mass of healed scars. Are they burns or battle scars?

“Squire, yeh want ta die, I can think o’a thousand more preferable ways than bein’ skinned alive by Illi. Siddown an close yer gob, or she’ll spit yeh like a pig.”

“Yeh won’t find anyone angrier than Illithias. Sure, she’s calmed down a wee bit since she joined the Black n’Red, but that doesn’t mean she isn’t full o’piss an’ vinegar. An’ ale. Someone should probably tell her ta cool it–someone other than Fells–but no one does. Personally, if she’s ol’ enough ta fight, she’s old enough ta drink her self sick.

“What, how old is she? Maybe sixty five winters? Aye, she’s young fer an Elf. She’s an orphan ta, losin’ her family why Hyjal burned the first time. That’s why she’s so bloody pissed an’ why she drinks so bloody much. How the hell is she supposed ta cope? Other than babysit fer the missus an’ me…

“Aye she watches Naiara. She’s good at it ta. The bloodthirsty bit isn’t an act, mind yeh. She’s not some hard-bitten warrior on the outside an’ some sort a simperin’ elf on the inside. She’s angry through-an-through, but she’s not a monster. She just looks–an’ acts–like one. Figure by the time Naiara’s old enough ta swing an axe proper, Illi’ll be calm enough ta be a good trainer. Hell, she’s alread started teachin’ some o’the street kids how ta wield a knife properly. She’s more complicated than folk’ll give her credit fer. The again, how complicated do yeh have ta be ta bury an axe inta a tossers skull?”

This year, our RP circle saw the following events:

• The Abduction of Naiara
• The wedding of Aely and Arrens
• Four Separate Births (Fells, Thiyenn, Yva, Seylon)
• Tarquin on the Run
• Annalea causing trouble with Stormwind’s Criminal Element
• The Death of Maggie Maunt
• The (temporary) Loss of Two Roses (Chelody, Shaila)
• The Death of Bloody Prince
• and a ton of Shattering RP

In short, it’s been a hell of a trip.  2010 was a record year for RP.  While a few seeds for future RP have been planted, for the most part, we’re looking at a clean slate for 2011.   How was your year of RP?

“I need you to hold onto this for me.” Threnn slid the box across the counter and watched the Bells’ eyebrows raise.

Robert picked it up and rubbed his thumb across the smooth-polished surface. “This is one of ours, Threnny.” He and William shared an identical dubious glance. “What are we supposed to do with it?”

“Just keep it for me, for a little while.” She gave them her best smile, but they were having none of it. All of Stormwind knew by now that the banners had been called. Still, Robert might have let her get away without digging any deeper, but Will slipped his fingers along the seam and prised open the lid.

Inside, on cushions of silk, were a small fortune in rings, necklaces, and earrings. Atop all of them rested a letter, one word inscribed in Threnn’s flowing hand: [i]Naiara[/i]

Robert hissed in a breath, then threw her a glare that would have sent most sensible people scurrying. “I’m not fucking discussing this with you.” He moved around his brother, grabbed his toolbox, and stalked over to the door. “You’re comin’ back, Threnny, an’ that’s the end of it. Will, if you’ve any sense, you won’t entertain this… this…” His voice broke. He stood there, staring at her in mute rage for a moment, until the tears welled in his eyes. Then he spun on his heel and walked out of the shop, slamming the door behind him.

Threnn and Will stood silently while Robert’s boots stomped up the stairs to the apartment he shared with his brother and his father. That door slammed as well, making the shavings of sawdust tremble on the counter.

“Don’t mind him,” said Will. “He’s spent the morning being reminded that we learned to make coffins before ever we made cradles.”

She smiled. “We’ll be back, Will. This is just… a precaution.”

His brow furrowed, an echo of the hurt Robert had so loudly expressed. “You don’t hand over your things and write letters like that if you believe–”

“Will.” The warning note in her voice was unmistakeable.

He subsided, dipping two long fingers into the box and coming out with an amethyst ring, mounted in silver. “It’s fine work. Always has been.”

“I told him someday he’d be making rings for queens. She’s still just a princess right now, but she’ll grow into them.”

“And you’ll be there to see it.” When Threnn didn’t answer, Will sighed and put the ring back, closed the lid on the box. “Threnny.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m not making your coffin. You hear me? Bricu’s either. So you’d both better come home, or you’re spending eternity in a box of subpar quality.” He reached across the counter and took her hand. “You come home, and give these to her yourself. Clear?”

The seconds ticked away on the shop’s clock as they regarded one another. For once, Threnn dropped her gaze first. “That’s the plan.”

“Good girl. Now fuck off, yeah? I hear there’s some big to-do up North you ought to be at.”

Threnn looked up at the ceiling, towards the apartment above. “Should I go see him?”

“Nah. He’s liable to say something stupid. I’ll have him buzz you later, when he’s feeling appropriately contrite.” Will came around the counter and wrapped his arms around her.

Threnn breathed in the scent of sawdust and wood polish that had been a comfort to her since childhood. Eventually she pulled away, her eyes dry. “I’ll see you in a few days.”

“Damned right.” He tousled her hair and dodged her swat. When the door closed behind her and Threnn had melded into the foot traffic heading for the trade district, Will sank to his knees and said a prayer, begging the gods to watch over them all.

“I can’t find my fucking shoes, Jakob.”

“Yva, the lich king doesn’t give a horses’s arse what shoes you’re wearing. JUST PUT SOMETHING ON.”

She stormed past him – tried to shoulder past him, really, but that failed spectacularly considering how large he was – and began rifling through the closet. “These are special shoes. Enchanted ones. I am not going toe to toe with Putricide in my bloody socks.”

Jak’s cheek ticked. “You have five minutes.”

“DON’T YOU DARE TRY TO RUSH ME.”

The answer was the clang of his sabatons across the floor, and then the slam of the front door.

“Jakob? JAKOB BALTHASAR GET BACK HERE!”

No answer.

Flaadhun lifted his head at the sing-song tones of his mistress having a complete and utter hissy fit. He padded over, stretching and grunting as he leaned against her legs. She cast him a sideward glance and a scowl. “Don’t think I don’t know this is your fault, Dog. I don’t know if hiding my shoes is your way of saying you don’t want to go, but it’s not going to change a damned . . . that miserable sod left without me. He really did. He went after ARTHAS on his own, after all we’ve been through. That horrid, domineering son of a bitch.” Her hands went to her hips as she glared at the spot Jakob Balthasar had occupied a moment ago.

She was getting ready for another round of ranting when there was a thud by her feet. She looked down. The mysteriously missing shoes were suddenly there, and Flaadhun was sitting beside them, the scaly monolith of his tail thudding against the carpets.

“Yes, you want me to tell you you’re good for returning what you stole? I think not.” He whined as she stooped to pull the shoes on, bitching all the while. “And believe you me, Flaadhun, when I find Jak, he’s going to wish he’d never heard my name. No one simply walks out on me, especially not when the most important fight in . . . EVER presents itself. Cad. What an utter CAD.” She grabbed her satchel of runes and stomped through the living room, felhound snorting in tow behind her. She felt one of his tentacles winding around the hem of her robe and tugging, as if he could hold her back.

“Good gods what! I’m in a mood, if you haven’t noticed, and you can thank your father for that.”

“I am not that thing’s father. It’s a fucking demon. Can we GO now?” She jerked her head up to see Jakob staring at her through the glass window of the front door. She blinked, her irritation fluttering away, replaced by red faced embarrassment that she’d likely been cursing him to the nether and back and he’d heard every word.

Because he was standing just outside the door waiting for her the entire time.

“Oh, of course. I . . right. I think I’m ready to . . . ”

His cheek ticked again.

She flashed him her best makeshift smile. “Shall we then?”

The Wildfire Riders decided that the release of today’s patch would see our RP circle IC’ly tackling the fall of the Lich King. This is something I whipped up to commemorate it!

These are minor failings. The fic we wrote up as a guild and shared with each other is brilliant. As a guild, we were able to share an event together, an event we all did on our own time. We’ll dissect Wrathgate later….but for now, let me share with you the last of the Original Fiction from Wrathgate.

Bricu, Illithias, Varenna, Threnn, Fingold, Annalea
She didn’t stay still for long. After a few moments of relative silence once Bricu had walked away, Illithias resumed her struggling against her bonds. The Northman had used a lot of bandage, and cinched it all tight – there was precious little give, and the fabric was already freezing over from the soaked thaw. Varenna still kneeled on her back. Bound and pinned and twisting this way and that, the elf resembled an fish thrashing away on dry land.

“Sun… ! Gah… ! Var… ! Varenna!” she barked, voice horse and strained from the angle.

From her vantange astride Illithias’ torso, Varenna Sungale turned her head slight and looked down at Illi, addressing the filthy, bloody hair plastered wo her scalp and scarred ears.

“Miss Illithias. Please do try to be still. If you don’t calm down, I’ll knock you out and tell Sergeant Bittertongue you somehow got free.”

Flopping heavily back into the slush and ice, Illithias let out a long, croaking sigh. She had stopped struggling.

—
With Illithias dealt with, Bricu walked back to Threnn. She was flanked by Annalea and Fingold. They were deep in converation, but Bricu managed to catch Threnn’s last words.

“We have to see it.” Threnn said to him.

“See what?” Bricu asked.

“The battlefield.” Threnn said. “We…I want to see what happened.”

“Threnny…” Bricu stopped himself. He knew the look. Threnn was set to go to the valley, regardless of what he said or did. From the looks of it, Annalea and Fingold would follow.

“Right. Then we go back. Threnn, stay behind me, Annie, behind her. Fin, anchor the rear.”

Two northmen and two southron women descended the rough cut path to the valley of Angrathar. In the distance, they could see Dragon Queen Alexstrasza and her consort Korialstrasz holding court in the ruined valley. The began walking calmly, orderly, like soldiers. It was the smell of the fire and cooking soliders that shattered Bricu’s resolve. Anthragar became Stratholme. There were no ruins or burning buildings, but there were soldiers writhing in agony from fire and from plague.

Bricu held out his hand to keep Threnn from running past time.

“No!” Bricu screamed. “Threnny! Stay back!”

Threnn did nothing of the sort. She walked up next to Bricu and looked down into valley. Bricu ground his teeth in response. Annalea and Fingold, whether afraid of Bricu or the view below, stayed back by a dozen paces.

“Oh light. Oh, Gods.” Threnn said.

“The plague is burned…” Bricu stopped himself. “We can go.”

Threnn continued to gaze at the ruin in the valley. She whispered, “They…They killed… They’re screaming.”

Bricu watched as soldiers from the Alliance and the Horde writhed in agony. He knew that the luckier ones would die after a few minutes of excruciating pain. The unlucky ones would scream and cry for water or mercy, only to die alone and in terrible pain. The smart ones–the ones Bricu identified with–ran down the goat path. Bricu unclenched his teeth to shout orders at the troops.

“Hold yer ground yeh tossers!”

“There’s no ground to hold.” Threnn said sharply, “They’re all dying.”

Bricu gestured to the soliders who had left their shields and swords on the valley floor. “There are ones runnin’. They need ta help with the burned an’ the wounded.”

“So do I.” Threnn said. She marched down the path, with Bricu, Annelea and Fingold in step with her.

Threnn started looking over the soliders, trying to judge which one she could save and which ones were too far gone. Bricu interrupted her.

“Then we can drag ‘em t’saftey.”

She did not stop to look at Bricu as he spoke. She noticed a solider, Westfallian by the look of her, whose tabard had been burned away. Her armor partially melted to her skin. Her breathing was ragged and shallow.

“They don’t have that kind of time.” Threnn said softly.

She started to pray, calling upon the Light to heal this woman’s wounds. The woman inhaled as deeply as her damaged lungs would let her. The air rattled in her lungs, a sound that Threnn could hear standing above her, and she was gone. Threnn let her prayer end before it was finished.

Bricu walked to her side, putting one gauntlleted hand on her shoulder. “Yer mum ta be. If they don’t have the time, then they get The Mercy.”

“Mercy?” What fecking mercy?” Threnn said, not too sharply.

It was Annalea who answered her.

“Mine.”

Annalea stood, with Fingold at her side, a short distance away from her sister. She held her up a worn, brown leather satchel, full of pockets for vials, herbs and potions. “This is what I’m here to do.”

Bricu nodded to her, Threnn paused. His hand still on his shoulder, Bricu whispered in Threnn’s ear.

“Come on now love, we’ve got a job ta do.”

Bricu pointed towards the mass of soldiers gathering near the Dragon queen.

“She’s talkin’ t’em. We need t’hear what she’s sayin, aye?”

Threnn looked at the shields of the fallen soldiers around them, and avoided looking at her sister.

“All right.” Threnn said, not meeting Bricu’s eyes. She looked around the battlefield, trying to look for one person that she could pull to saftey. Threnn didn’t see anyone.

“It feels wrong, leaving them.” She said finally. She turned back to Bricu.

“We’ve done what we can…” Bricu said. He pointed out the fires that still burned sporadacicaly across the valley. “These aren’t like Stratholme’s fires. These are the fires o’the Queen.” Bricu said, sounding as sincere as he could. “This lot will go on ta their rest. The rest o’us will just have t’keep workin’.”